


Every Night I Live and Die

by notverypunkofme



Series: Hands on Each Other [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Again, Bathroom Sex, Canon Compliant, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Zayn, Pining Zayn, Size Difference, Size Kink, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 02:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notverypunkofme/pseuds/notverypunkofme
Summary: Three days. It actually takes three days before Zayn fully freaks about the night in the bathroom and texts Bressie.Part 2 of the Zessie verse.





	Every Night I Live and Die

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 1D Rare Pair Fest Round 2, thanks to the admins for organising this :) There´s no denying we all need new 1D fics.
> 
> There´s more coming up soon!
> 
> Biggest thank you to Jes for the beta work <3

Three days. It actually takes three days before Zayn fully freaks about the night in the bathroom and texts Bressie. 

_What happened is between us._

And he adds _please,_ just in case Bressie's thinking about exposing Zayn in The Sun or something. 

He doesn't think that saying please would stop Bressie from selling the news. 

He pockets his phone and goes back to rehearsing some batshit stupid moves with Niall, because Dan says that they need extra practising. Fuck, like if Harry could ever not look like a giant giraffe tripping over his own legs. 

It's good that they are busy though. Zayn doesn't have time to think. About his existence. And Niall Breslin. How hot he was, and how big his hands looked on Zayn's body. Zayn flushes every time he thinks about it, and he's been VERY resolutely not thinking about the mirror sex. 

_Whose number is this?_

Zayn reads the text message on his old Nokia, a phone solely for his private needs. It's hard to hack it because there's no stupid iCloud, and everyone believes that he only plays Snake on it. 

_You know._ Zayn replies. He's sticky with sweat after the rehearsal, and also really wound up for some reason. 

_How did you get my number?_

_I know Niall's passcode._

That's how it all starts.

Zayn doesn't recall how he gets spectacularly drunk and stoned. Or - well, looking at Louis sprawled on the sofa next to him, he actually does. His head is spinning a bit so he leans forward to reach for a bottle of Evian. A party trick Lou´s thought of to prevent terrible hangovers. It doesn't always help totally, but at least he'll feel a bit less shitty the following morning. Just drink a glass of water between shots or beers and cocktails. Huh - pretty simple if you’re sober enough to remember.

In the other half of the living room, Harry and Niall are playing “spin the bottle” with two girls - probably models. It surprises Zayn that lads like them still need an excuse to chat up a bird. Maybe the game makes it more fun. Meanwhile Zayn's smoked up two big joints with Louis, and he can't concentrate on anything anymore. He just knows that they’re at a party in Marvin Humes´ house, which Niall is buying from him, because Marvin´s about to move in with his fiance. Eoghan and Laura and Bressie are here too, along another maybe ten people. The Irish gang seems to stick together, after Bressie´s finished recording The Voice.

He's been so good. Not following Bressie around even though he wants to so much. It's such a fucking stupid thought, he chuckles at himself, making Louis look at him and chuckle too, as if they were sharing some joke. God, if Louis only knew. Zayn sinks further into the cushions, watches Harry kiss the blond girl on the other sofa. She's very pretty: her hair and skin look silky smooth and she's not wearing too much makeup, which he knows Harry likes. Harry's hand cups her jaw gently, and Zayn longs for that too. Instead his mind´s been on Niall fucking Breslin for the last month, more so the past week. They ́ve exchanged dozens of messages over the past few days, and every time Zayn's old Nokia shows a new envelope icon on the screen, Zayn's heart jumps into his throat. From a simple _how r ya?_ in the afternoons, it's quickly, seamlessly escalated to _i'm having a wank and thinkin about u. You mind?_

Thing is - those few letters strung together make Zayn's day.

“You alright? Are you going to be sick?” Louis asks, and Zayn has to blink a couple of times to return back to reality. He's boiling. When he touches the back of his neck it's damp with sweat. He grimaces as he wipes his hand into the hoodie he's wearing.

“No,” he says, the answer almost inaudible. It's hard to form words, it seems. He stands up carefully, wobbles a bit on his legs but manages to grab the sofa ́s armrest. He needs to go to the loo. 

Trained by years of smoking pot with Ant and Danny, he knows exactly how it affects him. And it's different than how he's feeling now. All weak and flushed. Besides, this stuff is bloody expensive stash from Simon Cowell, or the like. He doesn't care, as long as it's not gonna burn his lungs.

He doesn't find a toilet but a kitchen first. There are a few guys pouring drinks and they say hi. Zayn nods back. He does recognise them but can't put his finger on who ́s who. He heads straight to the sink and washes his face and the nape of his neck with the water as cold as it gets, then dries himself off with paper towels. There's a huge silver fridge by the counter. Without a second thought, Zayn takes two long steps and presses the ice button. Three cubes tumble out of the dispenser. He catches them easily, popping one into his mouth and moaning at the relief. It feels just too good. The sensation is sharp and grounding, pleasant in his mouth. 

Of course exactly at this moment Bressie happens to enter the kitchen, and Zayn knows only because Bressie drops an empty bowl from popcorn, which makes Zayn jump a little, eyes fluttering open. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them in the first place.

Bressie's eyes are on Zayn for a second too long. It’s obvious that he's seeing the whole situation with ice cube—and how could he not, with Zayn standing in the middle of the room? He pulls himself together quick enough.

“Brez, are you drunk off your arse?” laughs one of the two guys in the room. It’s not Eoghan, Zayn knows that. The second one in the blue shirt joins in—not Eoghan either. Zayn doesn't know anyone else’s names, apart from Marvin. 

“Absolutely sober, Ted,” Bressie answers as he bends down to pick up the plastic bowl, and Zayn notices through the haze that his face is slightly flushed. He doesn't make anything of it, but his stomach swoops anyway, and he's careful not to make eye contact. He's wearing a soft crewneck jumper and dark jeans that fit tight across his arse. Maybe Zayn checks out his backside too obviously. He takes anything he can get now. 

Zayn's used to guarding his expression, although he has no idea how he looks right now, lusting after Bressie, two ice cubes melting in his hand. He vividly remembers Jamie - the first bloke he ever tried anything with. How he was much bigger than Zayn, broader in the shoulders, with the kind of bulky biceps Zayn could never get because he hates going to gym. He remembers that million-dollar American smile and kind eyes. How Jamie used to press Zayn against concrete walls in empty arena corridors. How Zayn loved - guiltily - feeling smaller. 

From the kitchen Zayn can see Bressie disappears somewhere, and without a single moment of hesitation, Zayn follows him. There's no denying that Bressie gets to him the same way Jamie did. He can't resist.

\---

The door hasn’t even closed yet before Zayn’s yanking it open. Bressie spins around, eyes wild, clearly surprised to see Zayn’s followed him. Zayn shuts the door and leans against it - more for support than any other reason. There are two basins in the room but only one toilet. Weird.

“Hi,” he says to Bressie, fumbling for the lock until it clicks closed. “Why are there two basins?”

“What?” Bressie asks. He's staring, and Zayn sort of understands. He's absolutely unwilling to look into the mirror. 

“Funny meetin´ you here,” Zayn says instead, lazily moving closer to Bressie. His legs feel like jelly but overall he's just pleasantly tipsy and a bit high now, not totally fucked up. He realises he hadn ́t styled his hair today, and his baseball cap has fallen off at some point. Probably on the sofa where he had been sitting with Louis.

“You followed me in,” Bressie says stiffly. Like he doesn't understand the situation. Well, Zayn doesn't understand either. He just knows that he really, _really_ needs to touch Bressie.

He reaches out and tugs on Bressie's top. It's an awful thing, if Zayn’s any judge. Bressie's fashion style is horrid, no fucking joke. Zayn drags Bressie's shirt up to rake his nails over his smooth stomach, leans in to lick at the prominent muscles there, tongue jumping over his abs. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bressie's chanting a moment later. He’s trying to pull back, but he’s also put one of his hands on the back of Zayn’s head, cupping his skull. It sends very colliding signals through Zayn's cloudy mind. 

“I've been trying,” Zayn tries to articulate with lips still pressed against Bressie's tummy, “not to think about,” he kisses around Bressie's belly button and swears that he feels goosebumps on his skin- “you.” He looks up, catches Bressie's eyes bravely. “I've really, really tried, I promise.” His hand finds purchase on Bressie's waist, landing there naturally. He bites under Bressie's pec, holding the fabric up with his other hand. “But I just couldn ́t,” he confesses in a stage whisper. No one can hear them anyway, with the noise from the party. 

“I think you’re drunk,” Bressie says. Zayn can tell that he means to sound stern but it's not working that well, because Zayn can also see how flushed Bressie's face and neck have become and it looks more like he's horny than angry. 

“Just a little bit,” Zayn laughs, deciding not to lie. It's only fair to tell the truth in this situation, innit. He sways a bit before bending further down to Bressie's crotch.

Bressie obviously can tell where things are leading, or can guess Zayn's intention. He gasps. “You wouldn't be doing this-” he hisses as Zayn's hands go to work on his fly, “- saying this, if you were sober.” 

“I would, I would,” Zayn's nodding, kissing the hot skin just above Bressie ́s waist. “And now I wanna blow you,” he announces resolutely. He's convinced that he's never wanted anything more than blow Niall Breslin in Niall Horan´s to-be-bathroom. He hasn't done it before, that's true, but he's gonna figure it out. Hopefully. He just wants a little taste. 

Bressie gets a gentle hold on Zayn's wrists, so Zayn can’t work the button of his flies open, or pull the zip down. Zayn whimpers in frustration.

“I don't think so,” Bressie says quietly above him, pushing him off carefully. “Ya need a cold shower and to sober up.”

Zayn leans on the counter behind him heavily and closes his eyes. He needs to clear his head for a moment but the only thing there is BRESSIE. He's been there every single hour of every single day since he'd wanked off for him in that hotel bathroom. And fuck, here they are in another bathroom. Zayn's all floaty and it feels nice and having Bressie would feel even nicer. 

He smacks his lips together a few times, eyes still closed, head tipped back. 

“There's no shower,” he says. “Only two sinks.” He sounds kind of dazed, even to himself. He's not sure what Bressie’s thinking. Maybe he's this hesitant because he doesn't want to take advantage of Zayn. Or maybe one time had been enough for him. But - but he’d replied to all Zayn's text, even the dirty ones from when Zayn had been stoned out of his arse and feeling especially courageous. 

Bressie looks behind Zayn. “Why the fuck are here two sinks?” He blinks and shuffles from foot to foot. It's clear that he doesn't want to make direct contact with Zayn again. 

Zayn bites his lip and reaches for Bressie. “C’mon,” he mouths, which finally gets Bressie's attention. Zayn licks his lower lip, dragging Bressie closer, inch by inch, fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans. 

And Bressie goes willingly, like Zayn would not ever let himself hope - almost - warm, hairy skin against Zayn's knuckles. 

“Promise that this is what you - that this is ok,” Bressie says urgently in a hushed voice. They’re standing pressed together now, and Zayn's giving the metal button on Bressie's jeans another go. 

“It is,” Zayn nods and then again, forehead leaning against Bressie's because he's standing THIS close, leveling himself with Zayn.

At the end Bressie lets Zayn undo the button and the zip as well, lets him touch his cock, get it out. He doesn't let him use his mouth though, stops him with a gentle hand when Zayn tries to kneel down. He opens Zayn's flies instead and wanks them off together, with his large hand, and fucking hell, how Zayn is still alive he's not sure.

Zayn forces himself to stay present. It’s hard when Bressie's hand feels so fucking good on him, their dicks lined up together. He has a chance to see Bressie's face- he's looking down at the two of them in his palm, keeps squeezing his eyes shut like he can't believe what's happening, like it's too much for him to watch. Zayn's knees are weak and he might topple over when he comes. Shit.

They don´t kiss, not even once, but they keep bumping their noses together and rubbing their cheeks against each other ́s, and their temples touch all the time. It's all the closeness Zayn could ever wish for, it's so much and so hot that he feels like he’ll explode from it.

And he does. He's not sure who comes first, as they both spill over Bressie's fist at almost the same time, their semen mixing together. Zayn stares, time slowing down until it's a gooey substance filling in the space in the bathroom. It takes him a couple of slow blinks before he gets out of the moment. His mind feels pleasantly quiet. He doesn't bother cleaning himself up, just tucks his dick back into his jeans and leans back against the white polished bathroom door.

“So. We’re meeting in a bathroom again.” He focuses on Bressie, who’s flushing tissues down the toilet. “Is it going to be a bathroom next time too? Just so I can prepare myself.” He smirks but also tries very hard to not to look cocky. Not that he feels like that. He feels - all sorts of things, and nothing at all at the same time. Maybe he should stop smoking so much weed. 

Bressie's only an arm’s length away. How has Zayn gotten into this situation, again, he's quite not sure. Bressie looks great close up, his muscular torso filling in the tightly fit jumper, jeans hugging his long legs. And he smells delicious, like the last time, Zayn notes. The fact that in the past week he’s gone from Bressie barely ever talking to him, to dick touching is like, mindblowing, honestly. 

Bressie's mouth quirks up. “At least this one’s bigger than the hotel one,” he says, cheeks flushed pink and who knows if he's blushing now or it's just an aftereffect of his orgasm. 

Zayn licks his lips but before he can say something clever and intelligent, yet playful, the door handle digs painfully into his spine. Someone’s trying to open the door from the outside.

“Geez, is there a loo I can actually use?!” a female voice wails from the other side of the door, rattling with the handle violently. 

Zayn's jumped away from the door to protect himself, or his back, more like. When he looks up at Bressie, he can tell that he's startled. 

“Seems like Niall's new house doesn't have enough bathrooms,” Zayn drawls, rolling his eyes. 

“Yea,” Bressie nods, but he doesn't meet Zayn's eyes. It's obvious that he's trying to shake himself off internally. Handjobs with boybanders probably aren’t high on his list of goals, after all, even though they somehow keep happening. 

Zayn's not in the mood to freak out or have an existential crisis. Not yet, thank you very much. Maybe tomorrow.

“I'm gonna go.” Zayn points to the door. “Maybe you wait here a minute.” It doesn't come out as a question.

\---

It's rough to be on set two days after the party. They’re filming a video for the new perfume. It's a good distraction from the mess in his head. It literally takes all his willpower to not to think back to Saturday night with Bressie. They joke around with the lads and the crew at the beginning of the shoot but like often lately- it gets boring soon. He's decidedly lacking the same endless positive approach Niall does the job with, Liam ́s determination, Harry's sense of responsibility or Louis ́ endless carelessness. Nope. He's just Zayn. _The mysterious one._ He bloody hopes that he’ll remain that way, glad once again that he's not completely in the spotlight the way Harry's been the past year. It's easier to get away with things.

They also do his hair a funny way, and just as he's about to snap a selfie for Perrie on his iPhone, Niall jumps from behind the big armchair and nearly gives him a heart attack.

“Fuck, mate,” Zayn mutters, heart running thousand miles a second. Instinctively he locks his phone, even though he knows there’s nothing to be found there.

“Hello,” Niall squawks in a weird accent, climbing over the back of the chair to squeeze in next to Zayn. And why not, because what does personal space mean to these idiots?

“Is that supposed to be French?” Zayn says, unimpressed, pocketing the phone.

Niall grimaces, half jokingly. “You know I can do the perfect French accent,” he replies but doesn't attempt to show Zayn his skill. Maybe he's tired of the acting as well.

Zayn nods, looking down at his knees. “I do,” he answers, almost inaudibly. It might be guilt he feels, from keeping things from Niall, from the boys, but he can’t look Niall in the eye, can't get quite comfortable next to him on the seat the way he normally would. 

“Oh,” Niall's trying to get into Zayn's face. “Someone’s moody too.” He smiles, oblivious to Zayn's reluctance to socialise this closely today. “I was supposed to have a pint with Bress after his work yesterday. He bailed on me, can you imagine? This morning he’s been real bitchy in LIC Whatsapp chat. A right arse.” Niall carries on while Zayn tries not to explode inside from the mention of Bressie, his face getting red instantly. He's trying to take a few deep breaths to calm down without Niall noticing. Fuck.

“Yeah?” he says nonchalantly, squirming away from Niall in the least noticeable manner. 

Niall nods. “Yeah… But really, what's going on? What's up?” Fuck. Here we go. Niall being the perfect friend. In the past, Zayn found it easy going to Niall with his worries and stupid problems, as Niall's probably the least judgmental and most drama-free person in the world. He knows that Louis confides in Niall about certain things too, rather than in Zayn. And it's fine. 

The sickness from yesterday surges back into Zayn's stomach. There's not much he can do. He grits his teeth. “Nothing,” he lies.

Niall's not having it.

“Are you bored of this? Is that it?” he presses, moving closer to Zayn again, plastering himself against Zayn’s side. It's not uncomfortable, but Zayn would rather disappear into thin air than sit here with Niall right now. There's only one thought in his head - that Niall could realise from Zayn's face what he’s been keeping from the boys. A wave of anxiety washes over him, making his palms sweat and his knee jiggle.

“No.”

“Zayn, don't lie to me.” There's urgency in Niall's voice, and maybe a hint of despair. He knows he's making his friend worry but he never heard Niall to talk to him this way. 

There's no way he's confessing though. The only option is to stand his ground, even when that means ruthlessly withholding information. Is that really lying?

“I'm not lying… I'm really not!” Zayn raises his voice too, hating it. Between the five of them they rarely ever fight seriously.

Niall's gone stone still next to him; Zayn can feel it without having to look. Which is good, because facing Niall is the last thing he wants to do right now. 

Niall stands up.

“Yeah, okay,” he says bluntly. Still, Zayn's eyes are fixed on his left knee. “Just. Okay.” 

It sounds nothing like okay.

The door shuts pretty loudly, though Niall's too nice to slam it properly. Zayn winces. This is worse than Niall shouting at him. Fuck, what a mess. 

He rubs his eyes. He's tired. As tired as he was yesterday evening and this morning. It's almost like the exhaustion never stops, always there to quietly creep in until it builds into a throbbing headache or nausea or general grumpiness. Doesn't matter if he drinks in the evening or stays in the hotel room. 

If only Niall hadn´t brought Bressie on tour with them. Zayn sighs heavily. His checked Vans backpack is lying a few feets away. He stretches to fetch it. The Nokia is in the inner pocket, the dark blue plastic is flaked and chipped. As if on cue, he can feel his heart speeding up - in a good way. It's excitement, rustling in his stomach. He will take that, if it means that it's going to make him feel alive again. 

_Niall says youre brooding. I hope it's not because of what happened._

_What happened?_

_That youre not thinkin you took advantage of me or some shit._

_Because I wanted it._

_Did you?_

_Did it look like I did not?_

_Idk. Sometimes I feel like I don´tk now anything anymore._

_I wanted it. It was hot as fuck. Do I need to be more explicit? Gonna wank off to it for next two months at least. Dont pretend like youre not._

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave your comments, I would love to know what you are thinking! Any feedback is great.


End file.
